Wednesday, September 20, 2006 // 11:43 PM

Today Marvin said apprecite us soldiers you girl-folk!, and I thought about how I'm such a conservative at heart, really. For all the femanazi noise I make, lately all I've wanted to do is sit down and shut up because I am sick of trying to decipher. Woman with brain is like donkey with violin can be true sometimes, because of what brain connotates: academia and intellect are so screwed up sometimes. Though not limited to woman, because I know more guys than girls who would prefer to take things simply. Someone dictate truth to me, please.

And the more contact I have with America-anything, the less I want to go there. Oh help me, please, or let me be ever so wrong about the impression I can't help getting. But the manic hysterical soul-selling to liberalism is definitely going to piss me off. Or buy me over, sigh, what am I doing, again.

I'm talking to Nick Wong about his winning some poetry competition, but I should be reading about the philosophy of history right now; I wish there was a way to say that entire sentence without sounding so pretentious, in all the ways there are, to be pretentious. Kevin oh pleased me when I told him about my having to read about the philosophy of history, and I don't blame him, because I would give the same disdain. But this really is interesting, because it is written in a very engaging way. Carr and his metaphors aplenty:

"This was the age of innocence, and historians walked in the Garden of Eden, without a scrap of philosophy to cover them, naked and unashamed before the god of history. Since then, we have known Sin and experienced a Fall; and those historians who today pretend to dispense with a philosophy of history are merely trying, vainly and self-consciously, like members of a nudist colony, to recreate the Garden of Eden in their garden suburb. Today the awkward question can no longer be evaded."
-EH Carr's What is History?

I can hear Kenneth in my head deriding some Lit commentary he read for being obscurantist. And I laugh, at the irony: obscur-what?